Thursday, April 28, 2011

20 of 30

a bedsheet ghost in linen,
with razorblade breath,
a pillowcase full of theft
and the dead

the headlights cut through
the woods where they fired buckshot
at us, peppered the trees,
the grassless house,
dog on a chain

here the mud bottomed lake
we jumped bikes into,
here warm water in a hose,
here 24 beers in a cornfield
here tar in the sun
liquid and black

here are oaks, scored with lightening,
here mushrooms and old papers
here the rags of your clothes
your rotted camper

there's a black phone i could call you on
if i could remember your number,
there's a white dog, a mirror full of blood,
a totaled car, a copper-jacketed bullet in your teeth
there's a place where the tracks meet,
where it's always almost morning,

a field of fireflies and crickets and gas station wine
an electric hum, a wheatfield,

I'll meet you there.

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